


Routine Is Dull (But That's Okay)

by alafaye



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-04
Updated: 2013-06-04
Packaged: 2017-12-14 00:08:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/830422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alafaye/pseuds/alafaye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It wasn't the future either of them imagined and it was exactly the sort that Sherlock would have killed himself over, but at least they're there, together. (Stream of consciousness/retirement kind of fic.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Routine Is Dull (But That's Okay)

**Author's Note:**

> Written in response to the prompt "routine" on [love bingo](http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/alafaye/10566570/15468/15468_600.png). And, as ever, inspired by a post on tumblr: "Thank you for sharing this dull, strange ritual with me. Even if I don't understand it. It's nice."

Settling into a retired domesticity with Sherlock Holmes was certainly not what John Watson expected for his future.

But he supposed he should have expected it.

He had tried marriage and the house and the dog. Planned for a lovely future with kids and schools and maybe a practice. Retirement fund and life insurance. It was the reality of his childhood future, but one that he wanted whole-heartedly no matter how late he was kept up because the reality was a bit more expensive and stressful than he had expected. More difficult to bear was the fact that pregnancy and child birth were just as deadly now as they had been a century ago and knowing he could do nothing to help Mary. 

John shook the cobwebs of memory out of his head as he carried on with his morning routine.

After Mary, he found himself back at Baker Street, back sharing a flat with Sherlock. Remembering to always check food and dishes before he ate; doing all of the shopping himself; being woken up at three in the morning because one of Sherlock's cases had broken into the house and was screaming obscenities. Violin screechings and a veritable field of tea cups in various states of use (not touched, half drunk, almost drunk, etc. etc.).

And then there was the day when John was in the hospital, recovering from a heart attack, and Sherlock was shot, unable to dodge both suspects who were armed. 

Enough was enough, John decided. Next time, it wouldn't be him having the heart attack; it would be Sherlock. Or they would find themselves in the middle of a turf war, both sides full of people a few decades younger and able to do more damage than John and Sherlock could dodge and avoid. Besides, they had outlasted most of their contemporaries by at least fifteen years; they had settled into retirement and were spending their days visiting grandchildren and traveling and enjoying various hobbies. Even Mycroft, who had settled somewhere far north where he was assured to be out of the reach of most of his enemies.

Sherlock had argued with John every step of the way, but a week after they had moved into the estate ("House, John. It's a simple, three storey house. Now, Grandfather's home--that had been an estate. No, this is merely a house."

"But, Sherlock, what do we do with all this room?"

"Plenty. I could begin a book on how exactly all crime in London is connected from the early days of Scotland Yard to present. The 1800s would take up at least a floor alone. No, don't look like that. I will leave you exactly a room and the kitchen. Those do seem to be the only rooms you are only ever concerned with, especially now at your age."

"Our age, Sherlock. There's only a few years between us, you know. I'll concede a floor for that grand plan, but honestly, if we get bugs because you've left every single one of our cups on that floor full with tea, I will burn the lot."), several hives appeared in the back yard and a garden was plotted out.

This morning, as with all previous mornings since the hives, Sherlock was already outside. Weeding, trimming, making notes, calculating, testing. It turned out that Nature was the last case Sherlock would ever take on. The changing climate played havoc with a system that already tended toward chaos and the result upon Sherlock's garden and bees provided no end of things to be done and changed and noted. 

A cup was in the sink, empty. Sherlock continued to eat as little as ever, but continued to drink tea in mass quantities. John, however, had succeeded in training ( _training?_ John's inner Sherlock scoffed) Sherlock to put his used dishes away when he was done with them.

Still, the morning would need more tea and John put the kettle on. He fetched two cups and put some slices of bread into the toaster. Sherlock came in just as John was putting the butter and honey on the table. Sherlock's gloves were set on the table by the door and both tea and toast joined the butter and honey on the table. With it being early summer, Sherlock left the back door open, letting in the breeze and scent of flowers just in bloom.

Sherlock wrinkled his nose as John buttered his toast. "When I woke up this morning, I realized I've been doing the same thing every morning for the last year."

John hummed thoughtfully, but only half paying attention, skimming the headlines of the newspaper. Sherlock growled. "John. You've domesticated me."

John smirked. "Ditto."

Sherlock said nothing else, but drummed his fingers on the table as John finished the newspaper. The drumming eased off into something musical and John found himself humming the tune. He didn't recognize it, but he certainly knew it--the piece was one of Sherlock's favourites.

"John, I...I never wanted to be domesticated," Sherlock said slowly.

John looked up, frowning. "I know. I didn't--"

"Don't misunderstand me. I didn't want a retirement and I certainly did not imagine ever living with just one person for most of my life." Sherlock took a deep breath. "Relationships...have eluded me. I understood love to be a motivation for crime and why families might stick together through thick and thin. And yet...I did not desire it for myself. For a time, I imagined that my life long companion would either the drugs or crime. And I'm not saying this because I am upset. I just...wanted to thank you. For this. A life together."

John cleared his throat. He wasn't sure what to say to that.

"Routine is dull and boring, but despite the fact that we have fallen into a routine, I found I didn't mind so much. Because you're here, with me, and part of my routine. Thank you, John."

"Ah, you're welcome."

Sherlock's lips twitched, a small smile, and finished his tea and toast. "Now, we do have a routine to be getting on with. Our morning walk?" He looked at John across the table, waiting.

Well, Sherlock wasn't the partner John had thought of or wanted and it wasn't the relationship he had dreamed of, but this was a retirement, a life, that John was suited for and one that, now that he had thought of it this morning, he was happy with. He finished his own breakfast and stood up. Sherlock followed him out into the morning air and if John reached out for Sherlock with his hand for no reason, no one had to know it but them.

But when Sherlock wrapped his hand in John's, John wanted the whole world to know. 

He smiled and took a deep breath. Routine might be dull, but at least they could together commiserate and lament it.


End file.
